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Being a web slinging super hero isn’t as easy you’d think. A ild case of the beer shits and alack for real human connection come standard with the job. It’s 11:30 and my phone won’t stop ringing. Kill Pretty wants an interview with the greatest protector this city has even known and I can’t find my fucking pants. Not feeling up to going under ground without being elevated, I down two tall cans and smoke a spidey joint before carring on with my endeavor.
I ride the train for free because this city owes me. There are countless citizens I’ve saved from the clutches of monotony while strolling down the boulevard with nothing to stare at but souvenir shops and hobos pissing in the corner. When I arrive at the Highland/Hollywood station there’s a crispness oin the air with a hint of desperation, and maybe rat poop. No sign of Megatron, Iron Man, or Silver Spray Paint All Over his Face And Suit Man. They must be upstairs saving society for dollar bills like modern day mercenaries who you hire for your shitty tourist pictures hen family comes to visit you and… oh shit I blacked out for a minute.
I might have drank too much… or maybe I’m still just drunk from the night before… or maybe this weed is laced with some other shit ‘cause mother fuckin’ kids are lookin’ at me like I’m some kind of drunk asshole instead of the hero they all worship. They’ve made movies about me god damnit! I’m givin’ out thumbs ups tellin’ kids not to do drugs knowing that’s their only escape from reality unless they get bit by a radioactive spider like me… Shit, I’m doing it again. Okay I just gotta find Nacho and that bearded bastard from last night that agreed to meet me here and get this over with so I can return to my web.I’m 45 minutes late ut I know they wouldn’t leave a spider hanging…
I’m standing in line, waiting, on my way home from the bar, subtly swaying back and forth with my feet planted like cinder blocks at the bottom of the lake. It could be a minor pee-pee dance or just something to keep me distracted from the spins – I’m not entirely sure at this point. I’m just trying to maintain my composure. It’s almost my turn to order. I’m watching the couple in front of me, their arms intertwined with each other’s bodies as they order their food by numbers. They complete the transaction and move aside. It’s my turn.
I step up. I watch the hair on the cashier’s upper lip dace as he moves his mouth, but I can’t make out the words he’s forming. “Chalupas,” I say, leaning on the counter, jamming my first in my pocket to scrounge up the loose change.
He rings me up and I step aside. Transaction completed. I’m next to the Siamese couple, the one interlocked by tentacles of appendages. They’re laughing, talking, kissing. Hissing in each other’s ears like writhing snakes in a hotel bar. They’re in love; I envy them. They get their food and just like that they’re gone.
The cashier tells me my order is up and I take the bag. I sit down and eat immediately because if I don’t I’d probably pass out. What Taco Bell has so cleverly dubbed “fourth meal” is my first meal of the day. Food, if anything is hardly a convenience. They say it’s a necessity of life, but I’ve found you can get by without it. I’ve adopted an alternative list of life’s necessities. Then, if I can afford, it’s hard to make room in the budget for the human desideratum.
The tacos go down as smoothly as spoiled milk. With every bite, I think about that story of the lady who hatched a herd of cockroaches in her mouth after eating Taco Bell. I swallow the last of the poor-grade meat and sour cream squeezed from a tube and play basketball with my wrappers and the trashcan shouting “Kobe” upon release, missing entirely.
Kill Pretty went to New York for 20 days in 2016 and took over 1000 photos of graffiti. This is our non-bias report on the scene in Brooklyn and Manhattan. Somewhere around 400-500 photos included. 40 pages, all black and white. ALL GRAFFITI NO BULLSHIT.Read More